


Salvation On His Tongue

by howsyasister



Series: Shuffle [6]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: M/M, Sacrilege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsyasister/pseuds/howsyasister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Redemption is filthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvation On His Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> We are so sorry. Please, pray for us. Song this is influenced by is "Take Me To Church" by Hozier.

He used to not get religion. He understands the necessity of ritual for some, how the repetition of prayers could help people feel better about life, but it was never something he could really wrap his head around - lighting candles, kissing idols and icons, asking for blessing. It was all lost upon him when it came to redemption, his eyes shrouded from salvation.

He didn’t get it. Not until he found himself down on his knees, praying desperately, his voice no more raised than above harshened breaths, lips worn red as blessed wine; the holy blood. His hands clasped behind him, restrained only by his will, he lets his head bow in reverence, laying gently against the firm thigh in front of him. As if this act of communion could make him well again. All this for that gentle hand against his face, stroking at his hair, encouraging him in his worship.

He gets it now. Because that’s what this is. His hands, broken of their grasp, caress reverently upon tanned skin, as he mutters his daily devotions pressed against warm flesh with an open mouth, repeating mantras, “please please, God, please… please, God, please…,” soft hymns on the lips of the sole faithful. This is his worship. This is his religion.

This was no church- there are no churches in the wild- but this was no less a sacrament.

He’d submit to no unseen force, no mythos or dogma, except the quiet commands given to him. To keep going, to not stop, yes, just like that… honoring him for his virtue. Soft as the lamb, he tenders every urgently gasped commandment in return for that touch that scorches his offered flesh to the bone.

His life was one of a pilgrim, traveling with weary feet, to always find comfort and grace within the shrine that was a silent room, the altar a soft bed, its vestments strewn clothes. A soft purr in his lover’s throat as good a call to worship as any, he breathes homily against an outstretched neck. Glory be, glory in the highest, to the perfection he tastes with lips that drag across navel. Glory for that sweetest benediction laid upon him as he partakes in the Body.

The marks he leaves upon his skin are relics, to touch them bestows that holy grace, fills him to the brim with that divine fire. Blue eyes shining, glowing stained glass panes, teeth dragging against flesh. That voice in his ears, blown on softest breath, asking for him to confess.

Oh, how he loves him.

He would give all he had, he would deliver his body to be burned gladly, all for the sake of his love for him.

And he gives so well. He gives a careful drag of lips up divinely velvety skin. He gives the sweetest kisses, snake tongue snatching out between them in the hopes that his lover might just throw pearls before the swine. He gives all the air from his lungs and the starving need in his heart, breaking the fast of a life led in sin. This is hungry work.

The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, like waiting for judgement in a bolt from the blue, as fingers thread over his scalp. New psalms are given life above him as he bows his head deeper in prayer. His fingers grip tight to tanned thighs as if his faith wavers- as if his lover could ever give him cause for doubt. He clings desperately, forsaking air for dear and bitter life. Litanies of praise encouraging him, urging him for that small death from which he’s born again, and he is only joyful to oblige.

Never had worship been so ecstatic in its practice. Never has he felt more confirmed in his faith.

He is anointed by love both heavenly and profane. He finds renewal within this holiest baptism, joy in his heart that he is found to be worthy, over and over again. He is purified, given a new name found only in the gasps he’d drawn from between holy lips. Wringing beatitudes from his lover with his own hand, he finds new canticles on his tongue, awash in grace that clings even to his eyelashes. Redemption is filthy.

Amen and amen.

 


End file.
